This sort of cold and snow is almost unprecedented. Birds find flying painful. Squirrels can’t sniff out their stashes under three feet of snow. I saw one small rodent’s body in the park, probably dead from the arctic cold. Dogs do their business hastily and beg to return home. I shovel and shiver, and throw boiling cups of water into the wind to watch them turn instantly into vapor and ice. Brrrr!
Joe was on his way up to Traverse City from Saginaw, humming along on I-75 near West Branch, when, just before passing another car, his eight-year old clutch gulped, then died with a BANG! He pulled over safely and rang a local towing service listed on his iphone. Thirty minutes later a big truck rumbled up to rescue him. The guy took him to West Branch’s Quality Inn, located just off the expressway, and then dragged his crippled car off to the car doctor.
Joe settled into a very nice room. A special lower price, reserved for folks who find themselves stranded, made the situation less onerous.
He rang me, but it was almost evening, and lake effect snow was hurtling down. I couldn’t drive that far in the dark - not with those dreadful weather conditions. Besides, repairs might happen quickly, so he could carry on to TC tomorrow…
But the next morning, before 9, he rang again. “ No dice with quick repairs. Parts must be specially ordered, which might take a week. Come and rescue me, Dee.”
M-72 was still quite windy, but at least it was daylight; I knew that, once away from lake effect snow, visibility would improve. (It did, marginally.) Two hours later, I found the West Branch exit and the inn’s parking lot.
It turned out to be an interesting place- really rustic. Log cabin-y. A tad darkish inside, but after peering at all that blinding snow-glare, I didn’t mind a bit.
A stuffed black bear in the outer lobby made me jump. I hadn’t noticed it there on the side…Countless objects related to Michigan’s turn-of-the-century logging industry were exhibited everywhere. It was like a museum. I was drawn to a huge, exhausted coffee pot that had hung over many a fire. Lining the walls were large, fascinating antique photos of Michigan lumbermen standing next to enormous, muscled workhorses. The photographer’s lens had also captured tired-looking lumber camp women garbed in the impossible-to-keep-clean, layered, floor-length skirts common to that period. Their uncut hair was pinned into thick coils on their heads. They worked like slaves from dawn to past dark preparing meals from absolute scratch. The primitive conditions they endured would horrify us today. Imagine the chilblains. The ubiquitous fleas and mosquitoes. Zero creature comforts. But these tough ladies soldiered on, sometimes for years. Our persistent sub-zero temperatures gave me a sense of what it must have been like for the lumbermen to work outside in winter .
Joe’s windowless room faced the core of the inn; a big sliding door opened onto a small R and J balcony, which looked down two stories to a large, attractive kidney-shaped swimming pool and Jacuzzi. Tables, chairs, greenery and warmth made the area homey. Nobody was down there.
I’d never seen a hotel room like this one. It even had a nice couch. In summer, pool area noise might be a problem. Still, I found the layout intriguing.
We couldn’t walk down the halls without pausing constantly. There was so much to look at.
Connected to the Inn was The Lumberjack restaurant, with the same log cabin motif. I was peckish and a little cross, having driven for a tense two hours through iffy conditions. Now, out here in the boondocks, I was resigned to eating a cardboard imitation of good food that less visited diners often proffer.
Joe, hoping to cheer me up, commented that last night’s whitefish dinner had been a real pleasure. Why not consider it?
Not in a fishy mood, though, I perused the large lunch menu with suspicion.
Huh. Here was meatloaf, with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans. I love meatloaf. Restaurants, though, are prone to plunking down recently thawed loaf-slabs liberally dosed with scorched ketchup, probably to disguise meat of uncertain vintage. Mashed potatoes are usually drowned in jar-gravy; green beans peek through the deep brown puddle…Still, this price was quite reasonable. And one never knows…
Glumly I ordered it, expecting nothing.
The waitress smiled her approval.
“You’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”
Yeah, yeah.
Joe ordered the whitefish again. (The cheerful waitress checked with the cook first; he was willing, though it was normally served after 5.)
Surrounded by warm pine walls, booths and tables, tons of antiques and stuffed indigenous animals placed in the restaurant’s vast loft, we waited.
What she eventually set before us was beautiful. I love nice presentations; this dish looked very pleased with itself. I admired the food’s cheerful colors- fresh green beans, fluffy white potatoes with a rich brown gravy- not rivered on, but gently placed into their slightly indented center, and then- two delicately crusted, slightly rounded meatloaf portions, crowned- not smothered- with a deep, tantalizing, ruby-colored sauce. THIS meatloaf was fresh and moist-looking. Hopeful, I took a bite. Oh, My! Enhanced with diced onions, green peppers and other yummy things, and seasoned to perfection, it was the most delicious meatloaf I’d ever tasted. The piquant sauce was a master touch. The buttered green beans were expertly cooked.
This was artistry. There are restaurant cooks, and then- there are chefs.
The waitress noted my look of ecstasy from across the room, and flashed an ‘I told you so’ grin. Joe happily dug into his (second) excellent whitefish dinner.
Usually I love to read while I eat, but this meal deserved my full attention. I made it last, groaning with pleasure. Even the coffee was good.
We paid the bill, left a generous tip, and got up to leave.
But too just- go -seemed wrong, somehow…No. A monetary tribute to the chef was definitely in order. I went back to the waitress and slipped her $20.00- a gesture I’ve made only a few times in my life. “Please, would you give our compliments to the chef, and offer this? We now know what to do when it’s too cold to do anything; we’ll book one of the Inn’s interesting rooms, play in their attractive pool, then dine here.”
Delighted, she nodded. “Customers keep coming back, but no one’s ever done this; he’ll be amazed! In fact…” She paused, head cocked, thinking. “Wait right there. I’ll bring him out. We’re not terribly busy right now…” She pushed the bill back into my hand. “You tell him what you’ve told me, and give him the money yourself.”
Even better. I was curious to see what sort of fellow would emerge.
A minute later a puzzled sixty-something, aproned man came tentatively out, urged on by the waitress. A fringe of clean, white, rumpled hair capped his round head; he was of medium height, with a slightly Santa-like body. His cheeks were rosy. I thought he was handsome. He looked at me, uncertain. What on earth was going on?
I fantasized, microseconds before speaking, that he was a Master Chef in the galley of a big aircraft carrier... The food on those ships is legendary. Whatever his history, he clearly loved his often thankless profession.
I shook his hand, then slipped the bill into his palm and expressed appreciation for our delicious lunches. He simply stood there, out of his element, shy, and totally at sea.
I heard a faint “ Thank you…”
“We’ll be back. My husband enjoyed your wonderful whitefish dinner again- he had it last night, too- and I loved that delicious meatloaf. And oh, those fluffy, perfect potatoes! You make ordinary food memorable. I hope they pay you well!”
He summoned a small, appreciative smile.
I left, but glanced back before exiting to the parking lot, where Joe was warming up the car. The chef was still standing there.
I wish that culinary artists were acknowledged more often…
If you don’t mind a drive, consider traveling to West Branch. Shop at the nice outlet, test the Quality Inn’s accommodations, and patronize the Lumberjack Restaurant. An ‘away’ night there might be a nice break. I can’t promise you’ll experience what we did, but hey! That’s part of the fun of- ah, Branching out!
Joe was on his way up to Traverse City from Saginaw, humming along on I-75 near West Branch, when, just before passing another car, his eight-year old clutch gulped, then died with a BANG! He pulled over safely and rang a local towing service listed on his iphone. Thirty minutes later a big truck rumbled up to rescue him. The guy took him to West Branch’s Quality Inn, located just off the expressway, and then dragged his crippled car off to the car doctor.
Joe settled into a very nice room. A special lower price, reserved for folks who find themselves stranded, made the situation less onerous.
He rang me, but it was almost evening, and lake effect snow was hurtling down. I couldn’t drive that far in the dark - not with those dreadful weather conditions. Besides, repairs might happen quickly, so he could carry on to TC tomorrow…
But the next morning, before 9, he rang again. “ No dice with quick repairs. Parts must be specially ordered, which might take a week. Come and rescue me, Dee.”
M-72 was still quite windy, but at least it was daylight; I knew that, once away from lake effect snow, visibility would improve. (It did, marginally.) Two hours later, I found the West Branch exit and the inn’s parking lot.
It turned out to be an interesting place- really rustic. Log cabin-y. A tad darkish inside, but after peering at all that blinding snow-glare, I didn’t mind a bit.
A stuffed black bear in the outer lobby made me jump. I hadn’t noticed it there on the side…Countless objects related to Michigan’s turn-of-the-century logging industry were exhibited everywhere. It was like a museum. I was drawn to a huge, exhausted coffee pot that had hung over many a fire. Lining the walls were large, fascinating antique photos of Michigan lumbermen standing next to enormous, muscled workhorses. The photographer’s lens had also captured tired-looking lumber camp women garbed in the impossible-to-keep-clean, layered, floor-length skirts common to that period. Their uncut hair was pinned into thick coils on their heads. They worked like slaves from dawn to past dark preparing meals from absolute scratch. The primitive conditions they endured would horrify us today. Imagine the chilblains. The ubiquitous fleas and mosquitoes. Zero creature comforts. But these tough ladies soldiered on, sometimes for years. Our persistent sub-zero temperatures gave me a sense of what it must have been like for the lumbermen to work outside in winter .
Joe’s windowless room faced the core of the inn; a big sliding door opened onto a small R and J balcony, which looked down two stories to a large, attractive kidney-shaped swimming pool and Jacuzzi. Tables, chairs, greenery and warmth made the area homey. Nobody was down there.
I’d never seen a hotel room like this one. It even had a nice couch. In summer, pool area noise might be a problem. Still, I found the layout intriguing.
We couldn’t walk down the halls without pausing constantly. There was so much to look at.
Connected to the Inn was The Lumberjack restaurant, with the same log cabin motif. I was peckish and a little cross, having driven for a tense two hours through iffy conditions. Now, out here in the boondocks, I was resigned to eating a cardboard imitation of good food that less visited diners often proffer.
Joe, hoping to cheer me up, commented that last night’s whitefish dinner had been a real pleasure. Why not consider it?
Not in a fishy mood, though, I perused the large lunch menu with suspicion.
Huh. Here was meatloaf, with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans. I love meatloaf. Restaurants, though, are prone to plunking down recently thawed loaf-slabs liberally dosed with scorched ketchup, probably to disguise meat of uncertain vintage. Mashed potatoes are usually drowned in jar-gravy; green beans peek through the deep brown puddle…Still, this price was quite reasonable. And one never knows…
Glumly I ordered it, expecting nothing.
The waitress smiled her approval.
“You’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”
Yeah, yeah.
Joe ordered the whitefish again. (The cheerful waitress checked with the cook first; he was willing, though it was normally served after 5.)
Surrounded by warm pine walls, booths and tables, tons of antiques and stuffed indigenous animals placed in the restaurant’s vast loft, we waited.
What she eventually set before us was beautiful. I love nice presentations; this dish looked very pleased with itself. I admired the food’s cheerful colors- fresh green beans, fluffy white potatoes with a rich brown gravy- not rivered on, but gently placed into their slightly indented center, and then- two delicately crusted, slightly rounded meatloaf portions, crowned- not smothered- with a deep, tantalizing, ruby-colored sauce. THIS meatloaf was fresh and moist-looking. Hopeful, I took a bite. Oh, My! Enhanced with diced onions, green peppers and other yummy things, and seasoned to perfection, it was the most delicious meatloaf I’d ever tasted. The piquant sauce was a master touch. The buttered green beans were expertly cooked.
This was artistry. There are restaurant cooks, and then- there are chefs.
The waitress noted my look of ecstasy from across the room, and flashed an ‘I told you so’ grin. Joe happily dug into his (second) excellent whitefish dinner.
Usually I love to read while I eat, but this meal deserved my full attention. I made it last, groaning with pleasure. Even the coffee was good.
We paid the bill, left a generous tip, and got up to leave.
But too just- go -seemed wrong, somehow…No. A monetary tribute to the chef was definitely in order. I went back to the waitress and slipped her $20.00- a gesture I’ve made only a few times in my life. “Please, would you give our compliments to the chef, and offer this? We now know what to do when it’s too cold to do anything; we’ll book one of the Inn’s interesting rooms, play in their attractive pool, then dine here.”
Delighted, she nodded. “Customers keep coming back, but no one’s ever done this; he’ll be amazed! In fact…” She paused, head cocked, thinking. “Wait right there. I’ll bring him out. We’re not terribly busy right now…” She pushed the bill back into my hand. “You tell him what you’ve told me, and give him the money yourself.”
Even better. I was curious to see what sort of fellow would emerge.
A minute later a puzzled sixty-something, aproned man came tentatively out, urged on by the waitress. A fringe of clean, white, rumpled hair capped his round head; he was of medium height, with a slightly Santa-like body. His cheeks were rosy. I thought he was handsome. He looked at me, uncertain. What on earth was going on?
I fantasized, microseconds before speaking, that he was a Master Chef in the galley of a big aircraft carrier... The food on those ships is legendary. Whatever his history, he clearly loved his often thankless profession.
I shook his hand, then slipped the bill into his palm and expressed appreciation for our delicious lunches. He simply stood there, out of his element, shy, and totally at sea.
I heard a faint “ Thank you…”
“We’ll be back. My husband enjoyed your wonderful whitefish dinner again- he had it last night, too- and I loved that delicious meatloaf. And oh, those fluffy, perfect potatoes! You make ordinary food memorable. I hope they pay you well!”
He summoned a small, appreciative smile.
I left, but glanced back before exiting to the parking lot, where Joe was warming up the car. The chef was still standing there.
I wish that culinary artists were acknowledged more often…
If you don’t mind a drive, consider traveling to West Branch. Shop at the nice outlet, test the Quality Inn’s accommodations, and patronize the Lumberjack Restaurant. An ‘away’ night there might be a nice break. I can’t promise you’ll experience what we did, but hey! That’s part of the fun of- ah, Branching out!